Once the gun was tucked away in the nightstand, Alphard threw himself fully into research. As he pored over the pages, he logged his findings in a second notebook, written in Japanese, shielding his thoughts behind an absolute language barrier.
Beyond studying the original Alphard's personal diary for anything relevant, he worked through the three volumes detailing Saint-Cyr's social transformation, its religious hierarchies, and its historical past.
Mastering these subjects was a priority; since the original owner of his body had specialized in economics, languages, and social sciences, absorbing that same knowledge was the only way to move through this world with any real fluency and understand its true structure.
Sinking into the diary's notes, Alphard came across revealing entries about the persistence of ancient gods still exerting their influence over the world. The texts detailed the origins of the Nine Orthodox Churches, founded specifically to contain and institutionalize religious fervor.
Among them, the writing singled out the four largest by global following: the Church of the Spiritual Goddess of Dreams, the Church of the Lord of the Sun, The Clown's Church, and the Church of the Blood Moon.
The mention brought back the fervor with which Charlotte worshipped her goddess, a devoted follower of the Church of the Spiritual Goddess of Dreams. The association pulled up another memory — the exact moment he'd stood before that veiled woman in white, her voice assuring him she could see through any lie he told.
Turning the memory over, Alphard noticed something crucial. Instead of the instinctive panic he should have felt, all that had settled inside him was a deep, inexplicable peace.
What could her connection to that entity actually be?
Flipping through the volumes, he found scattered references to the monetary systems of other powers — pounds, rubles. He knew that understanding the exchange rates and relative value of those currencies against the Saint-Cyr franc would give him a considerable strategic edge; still, he decided to save that kind of exhaustive economic analysis for a better moment.
As he read further, one historical detail seized his full attention. The volume covering Saint-Cyr's independence credited the military triumph entirely to Marcus Quinn — his great-grandfather.
Though Alphard had already known his ancestor was counted among the liberators, he'd never bothered digging any deeper into it, dismissing it as an irrelevant detail.
But the wary looks he'd drawn whenever he mentioned the family name — combined with the weight it had carried when he'd used it as leverage with Charlotte — had made one thing painfully clear. The Quinn name wasn't some trivial footnote of the past. It was a political asset of enormous consequence, one he'd need to learn to wield with extreme care.
Marcus Quinn Aurelius, at eighteen years old, met with the King of Zarkovia to draft a plan for Saint-Cyr's independence, achieved on May 25th, 1185. While Marcus sought freedom for his people, the king sought to obstruct the Victorian Empire.
It was staggering to take in — Marcus Quinn had been only eighteen when he mobilized enough political power to lead an entire independence movement. A bitter pang of frustration hit Alphard; at twenty-one, he hadn't come remotely close to accomplishing anything of that magnitude.
Still, a few paragraphs further into the text, the image of the heroic liberator began to crumble. The book laid out, unflinchingly, exactly why chroniclers had come to call him "The Absent Father."
Among them was a passage carrying the raw, devastating words of a chronicler from that era:
The man who granted us our freedom left us orphaned in its place: without guidance, without direction, adrift. He promised us a life full and overflowing with grace, only for us to become abandoned children in the middle of a desolate chaos. Like a father who turns his back on his own children, he abandoned us as a nation the moment he had gathered his wealth and his glory. It now falls to us, the survivors, to remain here and rebuild this homeland, honoring those who gave their lives and their blood for the promise of a new dawn.
Alphard's anger flared almost instantly, condemning his great-grandfather's apparent lack of foresight, convinced the hero had simply left the nation to drift without any real leadership.
But the lines that followed reframed that judgment entirely. The volume went on to explain that the other three liberators — decisive figures who had orchestrated the rebellion alongside him — had all died in the conflict before ever seeing the nation they'd fought for come into being.
Marcus hadn't walked away after some easy, bloodless victory; he'd been the sole survivor of a cause that had cost the lives of every one of his companions, the last man standing of the revolution, and not merely its founder.
There's so much packed into all of this. And to think I barely gave it a second thought before — though this should at least help me stop looking so out of place.
I wonder if Helena even knows any of this.
He kept reading with a surgeon's focus, weighing every relevant fragment. Though the thick volumes in the room offered an overwhelming, encyclopedic view of the world, the diary's notes carried a quality entirely their own.
They didn't get lost in exhaustive detail or historiographical neutrality; instead, they offered brief but vivid impressions, capable of conveying the tension and momentum of that era as though the events were unfolding in real time.
Some of the entries were things Uncle Alexi had told him about his great-grandfather — more intimate details that, while they didn't change the overall narrative, revealed a slightly different side of the liberator so many loved and so many others despised.
Shame there isn't more personal material on him. Maybe the family just never kept much documentation to begin with.
Before diving back into his reading, Alphard paused to think. Could there be other members of the family living beyond Saint-Cyr's borders? The idea took root and grew — as often happened with great dynasties, it seemed quite likely that his own household wasn't the true main branch of the Quinn line, but a secondary offshoot, while the family's true core resided somewhere else entirely in the world.
He continued his study, jotting down and organizing the most relevant details in his notebook. But just as he moved to close the volumes, a loose thread pulled his attention back.
He returned to the nightstand and picked up the scrap of paper with Japanese characters he'd found in the cathedral. He combed carefully through the religious compendium searching for any mention of the God of Beasts, but the search led nowhere — a dead end.
Despite that gap in information, the mere existence of that text, written in his native language, confirmed one deeply unsettling truth: he wasn't the only transmigrator in this world.
The questions came crashing in all at once — were there more traces of that person left behind somewhere? Why had they left that note precisely on the altar? And the most unsettling question of all... was that person even still alive?
The books held nothing resembling this — no mention at all of other people summoned from other worlds.
Where would the ruins of the God of Beasts even be? What "hidden truth" could that note be talking about? Did that person actually figure out who — or what — brought them here? That could be exactly the lead I need to find my own way home.
He glanced at his pocket watch and confirmed the night was closing in fast. The sun had all but set, and the moon was already beginning to claim the sky.
The last traces of the sunset still tinted the window, but the day's warmth was rapidly giving way to a night cold enough to chill straight through to the bone.
He put the volumes away, aware he needed a pause to let everything settle. Still, the paralyzing confusion that had shadowed him through his first days in Saint-Cyr had finally dissolved.
He knew there was still an enormous amount left to master, but at least tonight, he felt his integration was solid enough that it wouldn't raise any doubtful stares from those around him.
In the meantime, he set out to draft a plan for teaching Helena the basics of Japanese. Pulling a sheet from his notebook, he began sketching out a fixed schedule designed to teach her as effectively as possible.
He didn't bother overcomplicating it. Instead, he designed a nightly routine focused strictly on the fundamentals — pronunciation on one hand, handwriting on the other — careful not to interfere with his own work schedule.
The pattern ran on a simple, systematic rotation: one night dedicated to writing practice, the next focused on conversation, and the one after that back to theory, repeating the cycle in sequence.
I could teach her words and phrases on writing nights, then have her practice those same words and phrases out loud on the speaking nights. Once she's got those down, I'll move on to new ones.
He left the note on the nightstand and tucked the notebook into a small chest he owned. After locking it securely, he set the box down at the bottom of a drawer, keeping his secrets safely out of prying eyes.
Just then, a soft knock sounded at the bedroom door. Alphard went to answer it and found Helena, worn out after a long day of classes and her stop at Virginia's house.
"Hi, brother. Sorry I got back so late," she said, sagging a little from exhaustion.
"Don't worry about it. How'd it go?"
"Fine — I just still have homework to finish, and I'm way too tired for it right now."
Alphard gave her a moment to settle in. Then, with an easy, unhurried gesture, he picked back up the slip of paper he'd tucked away only moments before.
"I know you're exhausted, and it doesn't have to be tonight, but read this."
Helena took the note and read it over carefully, fighting the heavy pull of sleep threatening to take her.
"What is this?"
"It's your schedule for learning my made-up language. I promised you I would, so I'm going to follow through."
After hearing her brother's explanation, Helena finally grasped the note's true meaning. But her accumulated exhaustion won out in the end — her head spun under the weight of sleep, and before she could put up any resistance, she drifted off completely, sprawled across Alphard's bed.
Understanding the situation, Alphard carefully lifted her into his arms and carried her to her own room. He laid her down gently, tucked the blanket around her, and left the note on her nightstand. Before leaving, he paused for a moment, watching her in silence, unable to hide a soft, affectionate smile.
As long as I'm here, I'll protect you, Helena.
Back in his own room, Alphard put out the gas lamp and let himself sink into rest. As his head settled against the pillow, the noise of his thoughts slowly faded, leaving behind a single certainty. The exact words the previous Alphard had once written in his diary, a reminder of his love for his sister — and, unmistakably, a quiet premonition of his own end.
"Saw Helena smile today. It's the only thing I have left. If something ever happens to me, I hope someone looks after her."